By Any Other Name
by PlumeMecanique
Summary: "So what's your name? What do you in life?" She never told them the truth, of course, but to her surprise, she was more comfortable giving them her birth name rather than Anthea. It was common, it went well with the lie of being just a secretary. Besides, she was protective of Anthea, Anthea who always made sure she performed perfectly, Anthea who was entirely devoted to Mycroft.


It wasn't a conscious decision at first. She just liked the sound of the name, so much fancier than her own, and it slipped off her tongue without her realising it.

She was mildly surprised when John Watson asked her name in the first place. Most men meet her with a polite nod and seem content in calling her _Miss_ - or not calling her at all, as speaking directly to her employer gives them a heady sense of their own importance. But John Watson, right there in the back seat of a town car sent by the British government, wasn't interested in being important. He was interested in _flirting_.

Preposterous, given the circumstances, but amusing. She had to stay anonymous, so she blurted out the first name that popped in her head.

It was a good name, she decided the next morning. Dawn was rising over London and she was carefully watering the potted flowers that lay in a neat row at her window, the only splash of colour in her flat. She repeated it with precaution, trying it out.

"Anthea."

That name was like a little splash of colour as well, a fragile curlicue of novelty in her life. But harmless and hidden, that was paramount. She couldn't allow herself to indulge in anything else.

_You're not really tired, Anthea. You won't forget what you have to do, Anthea._ Over time, she came to refer to herself as such, as if the name was an incantation against the phenomenal pressure of her job. Dissociation, some would call it, but it worked. Anthea was like a friend.

Of course, no one ever actually calls her that. She still has no other name but _Miss_, except on paper. And he never calls her by her name either, because she's simply there, always.

She grew up vehemently hating all that old boys crap - leather chairs, glasses clinking, wood panels, muddy boots on an autumn afternoon, hardy slaps on tweed-clad shoulders and murmured agreements: _a friend of so-and-so, went to Radley with him, needs a position._ As the only daughter of a single mother in a semi-detached in Southfields, she knew that world was closed to her.

Nonetheless, she constantly sought the crisp satisfaction of impeccable school results, and it came easy to her. There was nothing she found intimidating or off-putting, nothing that she couldn't work out if she didn't try, like gently tugging on loops of strings to see how the knot was bound and then undoing it.

Her sense of purpose was so entirely focused on the present that when she first walked the halls of Oxford, she could hardly remember how she had gotten there – everything that had come before didn't matter any longer. Yet she continued as she always had, impervious to the life and death bursting all around her, watching from the sidelines.

She wanted to work in government because she liked the paperwork and the brute pragmatism that went along with it. Before entering MI6, she worked with the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, but she never knew how he had heard of her, who had talked to him about hiring her.

In retrospect, she knows why. It wasn't just her top marks, her impeccable references, her tremendous working capacity. Girls like her were a dime a dozen. No, it was because of her face.

"Pretty yet utterly forgettable," he told her on her first day. "People are threatened by anything too striking. But a plain sort of beauty, a nice smile, a friendly voice, all of that elicits sympathy and trusts. Use it to your advantage."

He barely looked up from his paper to deliver his verdict. A cup of Earl Grey was steaming on his mahogany desk. Later she would remember that for just an instant, she well and truly loathed Mycroft Holmes. But she let nothing show; the pay was excellent, and the line on her résumé worth a small dent in her pride.

In retrospect, she knows it's not just her face. It's because he surrounds herself with people who are entirely alone. _Mother deceased, father unknown, no close relatives._ It's simply more convenient when you need someone to call the private jet and prepare for a trip to Serbia at four in the morning.

She tried not to be so alone on a few occasions. Even she could feel the pull of normalcy every once in a while. She would dredge up a few acquaintances, go to a club, sip a drink while men chatted her up.

"So what's your name? What do you in life?"

She never told them the truth, of course, but to her surprise, she was more comfortable giving them her birth name rather than Anthea. It was common, it went well with the lie of being just a secretary. Besides, she was protective of Anthea, Anthea who always made sure she performed perfectly, Anthea who was entirely devoted to Mycroft. Anthea was more real now than who she had been before.

When their heavy bodies fell asleep next to hers, she wondered why they even asked. In the throws of spontaneous lust, that sort of thing hardly mattered. She didn't resent them, though. She even felt a strange sort of affection for them, so credulous and unaware.

And then the chime of a text message would come from her bag and she was Anthea again.

_Retrieved S. Prepare for arrival, 6 a.m. at office. _

That was why they never came back to her place. She had much rather leave in the middle of the night than kick someone out in the street when it was still dark.

"I need a brief on the Smallwood case."

She nods and allows herself a glance over her shoulder into the next room before returning to her computer screen. Mycroft is biting into a jelly-filled donut and peeking down his long nose at a file opened on his desk.

All things considered, he is quite a ludicrous character. People who don't know him and would hear of his cane and waistcoats and evenings at the Diogenes club wouldn't dare believe he's real. But there's something potent about him, the way he fills a room, the way his words always hit their target. It's only when they meet him that they understand the danger of underestimating him, often too late.

There are days where she also finds it difficult to fully comprehend what he is. She's never touched him, never even brushed against the tip of his sleeve. Most likely it would repel him if she did, and yet sometimes it seems as though he would need someone to take a napkin and wipe his mouth, like a child.

"Oh, bother," he mumbles, and she glances over her shoulder again. A blob of jelly has fallen on his jacket and he's batting his hands at it inefficiently.

In spite of herself, her mouth curls into a smile.

The smiles never last long.

He's sitting at his desk, his hands joined under his chin, his face still and sombre. A quiver of alarm passes through her, sharp as a knife.

"How come we didn't know about Anne Gloria Raeburn?" he asks calmly.

Of course. The woman who, fresh out of her wedding dress, broke into the building of the most powerful media mogul in the world then lodged a bullet mere millimetres away from Sherlock Holmes' heart.

"She's been very good at covering her tracks, sir," Anthea replies. "All records had her down as dead."

"I know she's good. I expect you to be better."

Anthea should feel humbled and guilty about this lapse in performance, but the fact that he thinks she can top someone with the intellect of Agent Raeburn makes a flush of pride bloom in her chest.

"She managed to wipe her CIA file clean, sir."

Mycroft sighs, leans back on his chair, and the light passes over his face. It's grown softer and wearier since his younger brother came back, burning everything in his path, as he is prone to do.

"Is she a threat?" she asks.

"Certainly, but we can't eliminate her now. She's carrying John Watson's child, and Sherlock would die to protect them." He pauses for a moment. "Die, or kill."

She hesitates, but when a minute passes and he fails to give her an order, she finally asks him. "What can I do, sir?"

He looks at her, almost surprised. "Oh. If you would be so kind to brew a hot toddy for me…"

She hurries away, her stomach lined with lead. Things really are bad. He hasn't asked her for one of those since the Bond Air debacle.

The next morning, after spending an hour on the treadmill, Anthea picks the shrivelled leaves from her jasmine and thinks about Mycroft.

There's a tiny crack splintering him, something that wasn't there before. Is it just Sherlock, or is he starting to feel the weight of the years? Is the loneliness of the ruthless path he set for himself finally bearing down on him?

She wonders what she'll do if he decides to take another position in the government, a safe and cushy job with more handshakes and less dead bodies. She tries to imagine working for someone else, getting pulled from sleep by someone else's text messages, sitting for hours on end with her back to another pair of eyes.

She can't. Whoever would replace him wouldn't wear waistcoats or carry a cane or eat jelly donuts. He'd be some brilliant, ambitious legislator who would wear impossibly expensive suits from Harrods, drink espresso by the gallon and treat her like a subordinate.

The dry leaves prickle her palm. She doesn't want to think about Mycroft leaving. Not because it makes her particularly sad, but because it makes her think, inevitably, of the depth of her devotion to him.

When she arrives at the office a few weeks later, raw from lack of sleep, she is troubled to find Mycroft is already there. Again. She always arrives before he does, except on the rare occasions where he works too late to go home. These days it's almost become a habit.

"There's no way around it," Mycroft tells her before she can even greet him. "He has to leave. They'll lock him up for the rest of his life if he doesn't. That, or execute him before the trial is even under way."

Anthea gapes for a moment, off-balance, not knowing where to put her hands. There are no files to grasp, no papers to take from him.

"I'm sorry, sir," she says.

"Have the driver ready at four o'clock. I'm driving him to the airport."

"Should I – should I come, sir?"

He peers at her and she feels viciously exposed. It's the first time she's expressed any waver of emotion in front of him, and he pounced on it like a cat. Yet he doesn't say anything, merely waves it away.

"That won't be necessary. In fact, take the rest of the day off. I won't be needing you."

This is her punishment, then, for letting the mask slip half and inch. He's sending her away, preferring to be alone even when he's at his worst. Her throat is so tight she can hardly nod.

She remembers, although she'd rather not, the first time the idea flashed through her head.

It was a day like any other. Outside, sheets of rain were pouring down on the pavement. He came in, the bottom of his trousers darkened with water, and she'd stood to take his overcoat from him. As she was hanging it on the rack, he stood behind her and brushed his suit sleeves with the back on his hand.

"London showers fall pitilessly on the poor and the powerful alike," he quipped. "Half a minute on the sidewalk and I'm drenched to the shin."

He gave a light chuckle. She felt it reverberate against the nape of her neck and inhaled the scent of rain. All of a sudden, she imagined turning around and grazing her fingertips on the heavy softness of the tweed, gripping it, pulling him to her. He had never felt so real to her before, and she was overwhelmed with the desire to match the impression with a touch.

_Ridiculous_. The word popped in her head before she even had time to consummate the thought. _Absurd. _

She gripped the lapels of his coat instead, then went back to work.

_Car waiting outside._

The chime of the text message echoes in the silent flat. Anthea wipes her face with a towel, soaked and breathless from her run on the treadmill, and stares at the screen of her phone. Something must've gone awry for Mycroft to call her back so quickly, but in a sense she's reassured.

She jumps in the shower - the car will wait a few more minutes - and dresses in a flash. Did Sherlock do something stupid? Did John Watson try to jailbreak him? What foolhardy, heartfelt plan did these two idiots come up with this time?

Once outside, she gets into the sleek town car parked in front of her building. There's a screen embedded in the back of the seat. As soon as she sits down, the car starts and the screen switches on.

Empty eyes stare at her and the mouth moves like that of a ventriloquist's puppet, taunting and maniacal. But more than the face, it's the voice she recognises at once.

_Did you miss me?_

Every shred of reason inside her head is screaming that this is impossible. She saw his body herself, his skull burst by the impact of a bullet, his skin drawn of blood and cold as ice. She recognised the burn scars on his abdomen left over from his time at the hands of the MI6. She had been watching on the other side of the glass pane when they'd administered the live wires to his skin.

It had been Jim Moriarty on that slab at Barts, without the possibility of doubt, and Jim Moriarty was dead.

They've been led down a darkened tunnel, all of them, made to believe the electric lights were sunshine. The lights are off now and they're going to have to feel their way blindly to the other side.

When she arrives at the office, Sherlock is there with Mycroft, as well as John Watson and his wife, her belly bulging from under her red coat.

Their eyes meet only for a fraction of a second but Anthea can tell Agent Raeburn knows what she's thinking. _How did you do it?_ Discarding a name for a new one, securing a love so deep that it forgives everything, settling down and filling the void with companionship... Nothing short of a miracle when the world crashes down around you every day.

"Ah, good," Mycroft says. "We can get to work. If you don't mind, Mr and Mrs Watson, my dear brother will have to stay with you until we've combed through his flat for any cameras, microphones or bombs."

"Not a problem," Agent Raeburn says with a smile.

Sherlock squabbles with Mycroft over the inconvenience, but Anthea can tell his heart's not in it. John tugs on his friend's sleeve with a weary sigh and leads him towards the door, throwing her a nod on his way out.

When they've gone, Mycroft goes to sit at his desk and leans his head back against his chair, eyes closed. Once again, Anthea is left with nothing to do but wait for instructions.

"Would you mind opening the bottom drawer of the left-hand side of the commode, please?" he asks.

She's slightly confused, but does at he says. In the drawer, there's nothing but a silver lighter.

When she stands back up, a pack of cigarettes and a small ashtray have been placed on Mycroft's desk. He fiddles with the pack for a moment.

"I never keep the lighter in the same drawer," he says. "Too much of a temptation."

He puts a cigarette to his mouth and Anthea realises with a little shock that he's expecting her to light it for him, a courteous, almost quaint gesture she saw in black-and-white films. She holds her right hand with her left to keep from trembling and brings the flame to the tip of the cigarette.

When Mycroft exhales the smoke, Anthea is overcome by the silky aroma of expensive tobacco. He becomes real once again, touchable, unbearably so. She steps back and looks away, itching to be dismissed to her desk with a lengthy report to compile.

"It seems we've arrived at the end of the road," he says.

"What do you mean, sir?"

"Well, from now on, it's just traipsing through the wild unknown, isn't it? I must admit, despite the initially unpleasant surprise, I'm rather looking forward to it."

"Yes, sir. Would you like me to contact - "

"Anthea," he interrupts her. "In a minute, if you will."

She presses her lips together, jolted to the core by the words Mycroft has just spoken. It's the first time in years that someone's called her by her real name.

"How do you know about… that?" she asks.

"You don't give me enough credit. I know everything." He says it in a way that's both threatening and thrilling, but she keeps her ground, and he goes on. "If you would rather I not refer to you that way…"

"No, sir, it's fine. It's just a name."

"Ah, yes. _A rose_, and so forth."

Mycroft watches her through a veil of translucent smoke. This is the moment, Anthea realises. She could reach out and touch him. Yet something holds her back, a fear that he's only doing this out of distress and that it would break him instead of comforting him. _Ridiculous._ He doesn't need her. She folds her arms behind her back and tightens her fists.

"What can I do, sir?"

He drags on his cigarette one last time then crushes the stub in the ashtray. "Start by giving a call to our friends at the anti-terrorist cell."

"Very well, sir," Anthea replies.

"And after that… I'll think of something."

The corners of his mouth twitch slightly. She turns away before she can see whether he's going to scowl or smile, and settles on relief while she can.

With Mycroft Holmes, that never lasts long either.


End file.
